Omnipotence Paradox
by Beguile
Summary: The trap springs too quickly in Florence. Will and Hannibal adapt. Season 3 speculation.
1. One

Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: the trap springs too quickly in Florence. Will and Hannibal adapt. Season 3 speculation. One-shot (for now, I think. Maybe).

Author's Notes: I saw some photos from the set of season 3 on Tumblr tonight of a bloodied Hannibal and Will limping down an abandoned street and finally, mercifully, was compelled to write! This may end up being more chapters; I haven't decided and don't want to promise anything, but I do hope you enjoy! Happy holidays, everyone!

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><p>Omnipotence Paradox<p>

The trap springs too quickly, and instead of rewarding Inspector Pazzi for his cleverness, Hannibal ends up with Will Graham wrapped around his waist. They fall into a shadow as bullets slash through the air above them. The Inspector clearly doesn't share Will's predilection for hand-to-hand combat. Hannibal can't say he blames Pazzi either: he could easily overpower the Inspector. Will Graham, on the other hand, is a perfect adversary.

"Just like old times, hm?" he grunts. Being sandwiched between Will and the floor has left him winded. The punch he receives to the face does nothing to help Hannibal reclaim his breath.

"Shut up," Will says, dismounting. He heaves Hannibal upright and pushes him through the stacks. "Move."

More bullet's whiz through crates and pallettes surrounding them. The warehouse provides only visual cover apparently. Hannibal anticipates an accidental death is in store for one or both of them. "I take it you and Inspector Pazzi are working independently."

"I'm not going to share the satisfaction of killing you."

"Hmm…" Hannibal considers a bullet hole that comes dangerously close to his trunk. "A pity the Inspector does not feel the same."

"I said…"

"I heard what you said, Will," Hannibal straightens his suit, "but I'm afraid I can't do that, not without attending to Inspector Pazzi's rudeness."  
>Will tackles him again, but this time, Hannibal is ready. He catches Will by the shoulders and throws him into the opposite wall. Will catches the brick with his cheek and uses the force to rebound, but that only drives him faster into Hannibal's fist. He lands in a heap on the ground, struggling to stand.<p>

Pazzi is reloading when he is grabbed from behind. Hannibal wraps his arms around the Inspector's neck and tightens until the gun falls from his fingers. Several blows land to his legs and chest, but Pazzi is cowardly and weak. He couldn't hold his own against a child, let alone a grown man with the experience Hannibal has. The entire scene is dissatisfying. Selfishly, Hannibal wants to save the Inspector for later, perhaps have Will for dinner and let him feast on Pazzi's degenerate corpse.

Speaking of Will, the lad recovers to the point where he slips soundlessly across the stone floor, landing a blow to Hannibal's kidney that lets the Inspector drop from Hannibal's grasp. The next moment is a chaotic exchange of strikes between the three: Pazzi reaches for his gun but is denied by Will, who earns a second punch to the face from Hannibal, who gets bitten in the leg by Pazzi, who gets kicked by Will, who gets thrown aside by Hannibal.

At which point the gun ends up somewhere in the shadows.

Pazzi scrambles for it, foolishly turning his back on Hannibal for long enough to get nabbed by the scruff of his coat. The anticipation of victory is short-lived. Once again, Will asserts himself in the melee: he throws his shoulder into Hannibal's side, causing doctor and Inspector to fall over. Pazzi rolls to his feet and darts into the darkness, still in search of the gun, while Will drops knee-first onto Hannibal's chest and holds him prostrate. He wraps his hands around the doctor's neck and starts to squeeze.

"Will," Hannibal chokes, glancing from Pazzi – rearmed – and Will – strong-armed – and comes to the conclusion that he has courted far too many killers in his lifetime. That being strangled by a former friend and getting shot by a desperate, crooked cop is the universe's way of telling him to quit before he gets ahead.

He rolls Will out of the way before Pazzi's aim can prove to be less terrible than his initial shots suggested. The ensuing brawl warms Hannibal to the core. He has never felt closer to Will than the moment their arms and legs meet to wrestle. They tumble back to their shadow, out of Pazzi's line of fire, and end up as a great, gesticulating knot, limbs tangled in battle.

Will hasn't simply regained his strength: he's doubled it, concealing bulk beneath the clean, lean cut of a suit. Hannibal appreciates the challenge, as the Will Graham he left bleeding to death in Baltimore would have been a poor opponent. They do not have to hold back because they are absolute equals: naked, exposed, fully aware of the consequences if they should lose.

Hannibal finds the pain and blood of their fight gratifying. He welcomes the hard lashes of knuckle against face, face against stone; of knee against sternum, foot against thigh. They are aware of Pazzi pacing for a greater vantage point – Will is especially careful, Hannibal notes appreciatively, because he wants the doctor all to himself – so they keep their squabbling out of his sight. They roll, punch, throw, stalk, and beat their way deeper into the unknown corners of the Florence tenement. Pazzi's bullets and footsteps come to interrupt them less frequently. By the time they reach the back wall, they are alone and entangled.

One ends up pinned between the other and the wall; the result is inverted a moment later. Hannibal dizzies; Will tires. They are dancing around a macabre finale, bloody castoff marking the walls of their hate-making. Hannibal thinks he has won when he lands a strike over Will's abdomen, but the hit only spurs Will into crushing Hannibal's genitals with his knee. Unfair, Hannibal thinks as he drops to the ground but not undeserved.

Will obviously feels the same way, or maybe he's just savouring the moment. He takes forever to wrap his arm around Hannibal's neck, even longer to haul the doctor to his feet to choke him. The whole act thrums with their familiar bond, with their twisted affection. Hannibal hasn't felt this connected to Will since Baltimore, since, "Do you believe you could change me the way I changed you?" and, "I already did."  
>There are no questions to ask that Hannibal does not already know the answer to, because he knows Will enough to see that this murder feels good. Not in the same way Hobbs's murder did. Will isn't trying to feel powerful; he's trying to feel righteous, and if the tightening of his arm could speak – which it does, ringing in Hannibal's ears as his heart thunders its last beats – it would speak RECKONING into eternity.<p>

The bullet screams past in a flood of splintered wood and air. Will's arm loosens for a fraction of a second, long enough for Hannibal to yank himself out of the smaller man's grasp. He elbows Will out of the way of another shot and nearly catches the bullet in his chest for the trouble. The stone floor is a welcome cradle for them both. Hannibal pins Will to the ground and savours their most recent brush with death. How quickly they bounce from foe to friend in the presence of a common enemy.

Another bullet prompts Hannibal to ask, "Shall we continue this elsewhere?"

"Don't kill him," Will nags.

Hannibal tosses his head. "Not today," he agrees and yanks Will to his feet.

The blow to his stomach leaves Will doubled over, limping, so Hannibal takes it upon himself to sling one of the former agent's arms over his shoulders. Will just barely resists. Pazzi's bullets have rearranged his priorities for the time being at least. They scuttle beneath a shield of crates, tracking Pazzi by his clumsy footsteps and abrasive Italian calls for back-up. There's a locked door in the back corner that they kick open, revealing an empty alleyway beyond.

Sunlight blinds them both, revealing the blood collecting around their eyes and the puffiness of their skin. The swelling has already started. Hannibal doesn't bother brushing himself off. He is too busy performing - straightening his back and shoulders, leveling his chin with the ground – to register the many injuries Will has inflicted upon him. He remains sensitive to Will's presence though. Their psychic tether, slackened in the year since Baltimore, are taut once again. Will's weight is a welcome sensation against Hannibal's side. He has a difficult time letting go when they return to the street, but they hardly need to invite more attention to themselves.

"What happens now?" Will asks as he extricates himself from Hannibal's grasp.

Sirens begin to congregate behind them. Hannibal suppresses a smile. "We run," he says, and can't help but add, "Together."

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><p>I think there's more to this, but for now, I have much to celebrate. Happy Holidays! Happy reading!<p> 


	2. Two

Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: the trap springs too quickly in Florence. Will and Hannibal adapt.

Author's Notes: Thank you for your kind interest in what has now become chapter one! I hope you all enjoy chapter two, which has to lead to chapter three, and so on and so forth until…I have no idea when.

…enjoy!

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><p>Two<p>

They play chicken with the other's stamina as they move. What starts as a run oscillates between job and leisurely walk until they are a safe distance from the sirens and Hannibal's car comes into view. He will have to switch it out for another before leaving the city, but he calculates there is enough time left to run the necessary errands.

Aside for several bumps and bruises (the miserable ache in his groin being the worst), Hannibal considers himself unscathed. Will seems to have taken the brunt of the abuse, but he's far too stubborn to let it show beyond a slight limp.

Aware that he's being watched, Will breaks the silence, "Will Dr. Du Maurier be joining us?"  
>"I expect that Dr. Du Maurier has already fled the country if Inspector Pazzi is aware of who I am," Hannibal replies. He's disappointed to be losing his new life in Florence so quickly. "I doubt I can say the same for Jack Crawford."<p>

"Jack can take care of himself."

"No doubt," Hannibal casts a sideways glance at Will. "Was he waiting for you today?"

"Yes."

The lad's honesty is refreshing. Their last conversation about alliances with Jack Crawford was not quite so revealing. "He won't give you up so easily."

"I wouldn't be so sure. His last words to me were that you and I deserve each other."

Hannibal hums, satisfied with the answer. They do deserve each other. For that, the good doctor slows and finally stops. Will follows his lead. Facing each other, they measure the quiet around them, gauging how alone they truly are with all the open windows. The old stone buildings provide excellent acoustics. They are alone enough for murder. "It seems providence has granted us another arena," Hannibal measures Will's stance and readiness for a fight. "You are here to kill me, aren't you, Will?"

More honesty: "I haven't decided yet. I thought a lot about killing you while I was in the hospital."

"I killed Abigail Hobbs."

"_Don't_," Hannibal's struck a nerve, "say her name. You don't deserve to say her name."

"I told you a place had been made for you."

Will grabs him by the coat lapels and shoves him up against the wall. "You could have let her go! You…you should have…"

Hannibal doesn't struggle. He invites the outburst, relishing the force of Will's knuckles against him. In fact, he's disappointed when the ferocity drains out of Will and they end up apart, facing each other again. The former agent isn't ready to deal in mortality just yet.

"Death is too good for you," Will sneers, "and it would be a disappointing end for me."

"Even a death orchestrated by Mason Verger? No doubt that's who Pazzi was working for."

"What you did to Mason Verger was justice," the fire returns to Will voice. His eyes smoulder. "What you did that night…to Alana, to me, to Jack, to _Abigail_…" he has no words for it. Will has to let the words burn on the air between them, an inferno. "That deserves something so much worse than death, even a death that Mason Verger planned."

Hannibal lets the heat of the moment wash against him. "I look forward to what you have in mind," he says, "though I'm not sure if Jack Crawford will continue to support this endeavour, not now that you've abandoned him. You can count on Inspector Pazzi letting him know how you aided and abetted my escape at the warehouse."

"Jack Crawford knows where my loyalties lie."

"You can hardly say the same for the Polizia di Stato. My flight from Baltimore received national coverage, as did yours and Jack Crawford's botched operation to avert it. You were barely acquitted in the United States."

Will finally catches up in the conversation. "Are you asking me to flee the country with you?"

"I'm merely providing the incentive."

"You _gutted_ me."

Hannibal looks to the place he sank his knife so long ago. Will's leg hangs below it the way animals hang in a butcher shop's window. "I overreacted," the good doctor allows himself to admit.

The pause is long and pregnant. Will's gaze can't possibly get any wilder. Hannibal's explanation seems so miniscule in comparison to the carnage he caused. "You overreacted?"

"The intention was to depart from Baltimore with you and Abigail without alarm. I was upset."

Will's grasp on his temper weakens. He lets loose an indignant huff and storms away as well as his bad leg will support him, then circles back. "You know, I stand corrected: death sounds like a perfect punishment for you. I should have let Inspector Pazzi shoot you."

"Then why didn't you?" Hannibal allows the impending revelations to percolate in his mind. He's coming to understand this new Will, the one limping in the aftermath, his motivations. "You came to Florence with Jack Crawford to arrest me, but you prevent an attempt on my life by a zealous police officer and flee the scene instead. You're not even armed yourself, are you, Will? Not even Jack Crawford trusts you enough to give you a gun."

"I knew I wouldn't need one. Not against you."

"Because you knew I wouldn't attack you? Or because you knew you wouldn't use it on me?"

"Both," Will spits. "If I do decide to kill you, Dr. Lecter, I want to do it with my bare hands."

Hannibal can't express the pleasure he gets from the thought of facing Will again, this time in a fair fight. "I wouldn't have it any other way. Perhaps you'll give greater consideration to my proposal to run together after all. We can go somewhere private, just the two of us, and end it the way it should have in Baltimore."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

They can't possibly just stand around all day in a quiet section of Florence, Hannibal knows, and it dawns on him a second later why they might be. He lunges for Will and captures the cell phone safely tucked into the breast pocket of the smaller man's coat.

Will punches him in the throat. Stars dance in front of Hannibal's eyes and the cell phone tumbles across the pavement. The doctor scrambles forward, ignoring his inability to breathe, and throws himself down on Will's exposed back.

The former agent's reaction is more violent than he anticipates, and his cry is more of pain than mere frustration. Hannibal loses his grip from Will's sudden burst of strength, but he still manages to crack the phone with a kick before Will can get to it. Another stomp his foot and the hope of being tracked disappears.

Hannibal gives Will a moment to right himself. He straightens his coat, combs a hand through his hair, cleans the blood of his arm. Blood that isn't his. He raises a brow and scans the area. There are drops on the cobblestone, on Will's shoes, down Will's pant leg.

He blames his rather slow comprehension of the situation on a possible head injury. The limping, the pain, his pallor. Will's gone a shade of pale best reserved for the morgue. He's sweating in spite of the temperature.

"It's a graze," Will said, pressing a hand against his hip. The bullet must have passed through the pocket during their flight through the stacks. No wonder Hannibal can't see the rip.

Will staggers back a step. He barely catches himself. Hannibal, as usual, takes advantage. He stalks slowly towards Will. "It appears your options are dwindling, Will: you can either stay here and hope for rescue, not to mention that the Polizia are willing to believe your story about their Inspector being a hired hand. Or you can come with me, knowing that I have the means to stop the bleeding and save your life."

"I'm not…" the words die in his mouth as a symptom of his condition or the oppressive hopelessness of the situation. "Jack Crawford is going to come looking for me."

"He won't find you."  
>"He already did once."<p>

"You found me, Will," Hannibal reaches towards Will's hip and applies the same, life-saving pressure to Will's wound that he applied to Abigail Hobbs's neck. The touch revives Will somewhat. He manages to close his mouth and draw a steadying breath. "Of that I am absolutely certain."

The corners of Will's mouth tilt up in a wicked half-smile. His face crumbles a second later – from physical pain or emotional pain, Hannibal's not sure. "I suppose it will be easier to catch you if I'm with you."

Hannibal smiles too. "I'm glad that was your decision. I admit, I was going to wait for you to pass out and take you while you were incapacitated."  
>Will snarls, "I would expect nothing less, Doctor."<p>

"Put pressure on that," Hannibal directs, then slings one of Will's arms over his shoulders again. Their three-legged gait carries them to the car, where Hannibal deposits Will in the passenger seat. He packs his coat against Will's hip to staunch the bleeding, then rounds the vehicle to the driver's seat.

He makes sure his route takes them directly past Hospital Saint Maria Nuovo. It is, after all, less than two blocks from where they were standing.

"Bastard," Will mutters.

"Don't be rude, Will," Hannibal warns, accelerating.

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><p>Happy reading!<p> 


	3. Three

Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: Hannibal makes a stop on their way out of the city. Will is not happy about it.

Author's Notes: I am so happy that people are enjoying this fic! It's certainly helping me cope with the long stretch between now and the third season (which can't come fast enough, what with all the amazing news about it). I feel like I should mention that I am borrowing bits and pieces from the _Hannibal _novel, including Pazzi's wife. Apologies if this is spoiler-y.

Cheers, everyone! Enjoy!

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><p>Three<p>

Will berates himself for not keeping a better handle on his gunshot wound. For letting his cell phone get destroyed. For not having a gun (he tries to blame Jack for that and fails, miserably). He imagines calling Hannibal's bluff there on the street instead of caving to the doctor's design. Again.

Then he realizes that gunshot wound or no, the second he started following Hannibal today they were bound to end up in this car together. Theirs is a dance of fate ruled by just enough luck to appear random.

He is shaken out of his reverie gently. Hannibal doesn't tear his eyes from the road even as he retracts his hand from Will's shoulder. "Are you conscious?"

Will is also careful not to take his eyes from the road, "Yes."

"You'll keep me informed about your condition: confusion, weakness, or any agitation."

"The bleeding's slowed."

"Possibly because you don't have much blood left to lose."

"I'm fine."

"For now."

"Where are we going?"

Hannibal indulges him, "We're paying a quick visit on our way out of the city. Just long enough to administer to your wound and perhaps have a quick bite."

Will stirs. Adrenaline hits his bloodstream like liquid nitrogen. "No," he declares. "No, we are not stopping for a _bite_. Stop here. That looks like a pharmacy."

"That's a corner store."

He grumbles and then adds, "Just find a pharmacy."

"We don't need a pharmacy," Hannibal replies casually. "I'm confident our stop will have everything we need."

"You mean your _meal_ will have everything we need. Let's not mince words as well as people, Hannibal."

The good doctor smiles. He casts his first glance at Will since getting into the car. "You're looking pale."

"I'm fine," but he says it too forcefully. Hannibal knows he's not. Worse, Will now knows he's not. He can hear the desperation in his voice, the thread of _this is a terrible idea _and _what the hell am I doing_ constricting his tone into a tight, crackly knot. The pain isn't as terrible as it should be, especially with constant pressure. His thoughts are beginning to fizzle.

"Tell me," Hannibal prompts him.

"I think I'm going into shock."

"Hmm," the car accelerates up a hill. Will closes his eyes and lets himself drift. He's shaken back into awareness again by Hannibal. "Stay with me, Will."

He opts for the direct approach. About the only thought keeping him going right now: "You're going to kill someone."

"I'm not going to kill you," Hannibal slows to a more respectable speed and pulls around a corner. The houses on the hill are more of Florence's ancient opulence, modernized just enough to remain standing. They're warm and glowing in the afternoon sun. Will lets them raise his temperature back to normal. "I hardly think you'll begrudge me Inspector Pazzi though."

"Hannibal."

He parks discretely, hiding his vehicle behind an overflowing garden Will assumes is out of sight from Pazzi's home. They are at Pazzi's home aren't they? There to raid the medicine cabinet and Pazzi's own flesh. Will has to gather his thoughts before saying more. The loss of momentum has left him spinning. "Hannibal, I already said I'd go with you."

"Are you proposing a trade, Will? Your life for Inspector Pazzi's?"

"No. I'm proposing that we get the hell out of Florence before Jack Crawford, former head of the FBI's Behavioural Sciences Unit, accurately deduces that you're targeting the Inspector who just fired on you in broad daylight." The logic is air tight on that one. Will's still not surprised when Hannibal exits the car after engaging in one of his patented blank stares. The trunk opens, then slams shut again. Will barely catches himself when his door opens.

Hannibal carries a medical kit in one hand and helps Will up with the other, slinging one of Will's arms over his shoulder before the younger man can protest. Hannibal clamps then clamps his hand down on Will's wound before walking. He continues their conversation as if Will isn't just dangling off his shoulder. "Inspector Pazzi is not going to allow Jack Crawford to arrest me, not with Mason's reward. His house is the last place Crawford will be allowed to search."

The tugging on his side is unbearable. Will's vision blanks out into red and white and brown. He digs his heels into the ground and covers for his weakness by focusing on his own moral outrage. "I am not going to be an accomplice," he stammers. When his vision returns, Will finds Hannibal staring at him blankly. He stares right back. "I'm also not going to be an accessory."

Hannibal doesn't move, but his expression does change to one of intrigue. "And yet here you are," he says, adjusting Will's grip on his shoulders.

Will glares at the pathway, at the forest, at the hollow-eyed villa in his path. Inspector Pazzi lives in a house fit for murder. It's like he picked it specifically because a cannibal could butcher him discretely within. "Yes," he comments glumly, "here I am."

"You'll behave yourself then?"

"I'm not going to let you kill the man," Will has to stop one more time to get his bearings. His side is in agony, and his shoe squeaks from the blood collecting in his sock. Hannibal has to take on more of his weight before they can continue. He seems only too happy to: lethargy means Will won't be able to put up much of a fight in Pazzi's defence.

By the time they reach the door, Will's mouth has gone dry and his head is filled with cotton. He sags heavily against Hannibal's side. The doorbell chimes dully behind the door.

Will can't quite muster the venom the moment deserves, "He's not going to be home yet."

Hannibal doesn't reply. He just flicks the corners of his lips up in a smile that only the devil can see.

The door opens revealing a statuesque brunette. She is horrified by the sight of Will, then sympathetic, and then horrified again.

After a hurried exchange of Italian pleasantries, the woman pulls the door wife open and ushers both Hannibal and Will inside.

Will tries to find the words that will communicate the danger she's in, but he speaks about as much Italian as she does English, which is to say none at all. Still, he has to try. "Whatever he told you, he's lying," Will gestures to to get his point across. "Get out now. Call the Polizia! Polizia!" She nods to him and repeats the word in what he thinks at first is agreement.

Hannibal disabuses him of that notion. "I told her you were delirious," he says, then continues speaking in Italian. The women converses with him as she walks them into the foyer and points them toward the other rooms in the house.

Will watches in horror as she closes the door behind them.

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><p>Happy reading!<p> 


	4. Four

Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: When it's all over, there's intestines swirled on the cobblestones, and Will is suddenly appreciative of the fact that Hannibal gutted him on the ground floor.

Author's Notes: I meant to get this posted this morning! GAH! FANFICTION!

Ahem, this next chapter gave me some pause – hence the delay. I liked the structure but had to consider whether it was superfluous. I can do a lot of superfluous things. I think it works. I hope you do too.

I should warn you, dear readers, that I just copied dialogue from the novel _Hannibal_ in this one. I also included an ad hoc, improvised version of Pazzi's death. As a result, this chapter is still spoiler-y. And bloody.

Enjoy!

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><p>Four<p>

When it's all over, there's intestines swirled on the cobblestones. Pazzi's legs dangle like a chandelier in the archway, blood trickling from the soles of his shoes. Florence is spread out on a blanket beyond them, pink and indigo in the falling sun, a stark, unsettling contrast to the macabre image framing the veranda.

Will stands in silent acceptance of the scene. He clutches his stomach sympathetically for Pazzi. Hannibal inquires with a look, chest heaving, as he reels from the fight. "I'm suddenly appreciative of the fact that you gutted me on the ground floor," Will replies humourlessly.

Hannibal turns his attention back to the mess Pazzi's made on the walkway. "You incapacitated Signora Pazzi," he notes.

"She means nothing," Will argues. "If she remembers anything of our visit, she won't be telling the Polizia anything they don't already know."

Hannibal nods. He retreats into the house to clean himself. "We'll be leaving shortly," he tells Will. "Mason's men are not far behind."

"You're not in the mood for more carnage?"

"I'm not in the mood to see Signora Pazzi killed." He doesn't say whether he or Mason's men will do the killing.

Will deserves some food for thought.

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><p>A few things that become clear the second Will is settled in the kitchen, coat off and shirt open to reveal the long gash along his hip and lower back.<p>

First, Signora Pazzi and Hannibal are acquainted. That much is clear from their proximity at the sink. He washes his hands, she prepares a bowl of warm water and procures a fresh towel. They speak in soft voices and exchange sentences that Will's mind provides subtitles for: amidst all their chatter about him (indicated by the quick glances he's receiving), they're asking about each other. Signora's eyes gleam; Hannibal's remain darkened.

"She seems perfectly polite to me," Will notes when Hannibal returns to his side.

"Signora Pazzi is very polite," Hannibal says, pulling Will's hand away from his wound to inspect it. Blood spurts anew to fill the gash and Hannibal applies new pressure. Will gasps and clings to his chair for support. "Occasionally, though, life does not afford a rude meal. Beggars can't be choosers."

Will shoots her a concerned look. Signora has the phone pressed to her ear and is speaking hurriedly. "Who is she calling?"

"Her husband," Hannibal replaces Will's hand and sets about preparing a needle for sutures. His medical kit has everything for the living and the dead, apparently. "I managed to convince her not to phone for an ambulance, but I insisted she phone her husband and let him know I was here."

"You told her your name?"

"Signora Pazzi knows me by my alias. Her husband should be along shortly, I expect, once he knows I am here."

"And the Polizia?"

"Inspector Pazzi would not want to share me with them."

Will gasps for breath. The pressure Hannibal is applying drives the air from his lungs. "Mason?"

Hannibal nods his understanding, "Mason has sent men, no doubt, to ensure my capture. I doubt Inspector Pazzi will invite them to his house any more than the Polizia, not with Signora."

The phone appears near Hannibal's head. Signora Pazzi utters something. Hannibal takes it, patting Will's shoulder sympathetically, then ruins the air of calm he's projecting by speaking in English. "Commendatore, how nice to speak to you again. I'm sorry to take advantage of your hospitality, but a friend of mine has been injured and we required a place to recoup."

Whatever Pazzi says is inaudible. Will tries to catch the attention of Signora before she disappears and he fails. Hannibal's demeanor remains unchanged: he is still pleasant with Pazzi, terrifyingly pleasant, even while saying, "On a related note, I am giving very serious thought to eating your wife."

Signora Pazzi returns to the kitchen just in time to hear the death threat, but she makes no sign of comprehending what Hannibal has said. He transitions back into Italian and says something Will can only assume is normal, non-cannibalistic, and even halfway pleasant given that Signora ends up smiling softly.

Hannibal smiles back as he hangs up.

The Italian chatter continues as Hannibal tends to Will's wound. Signora plays nurse as he lances the area with lidocaine and proceeds to stitch the site closed. The medical kit is well-stocked with everything a killer would need: scalpels, hypodermics, vials, gauze, suture kits. Will considers grabbing a blade, but his nausea spikes suddenly – not from the doctor's touch, which he can't feel, but the proximity. The blood loss. The disorienting flashbacks to Hannibal's kitchen floor. He grips his scar protectively, half-expecting to catch a handful of bowel when he does.

"That healed nicely," Hannibal appraises the scar as he works. "Your surgeon did some fine work."

"You gave him a fine wound to work with."

Hannibal does not disagree. "Inspector Pazzi did not. You must have been in pain, Will."

Will closes his eyes against the dizziness. He releases his next breath slowly. "Does that please you?"

The doctor hums. _Yes_. Will winces as the tracts of his skin are sewn back together. Signora makes a comment and departs for the sink again. Will follows her out of the corner of his eye. Her image expands and contracts at odd, rhythmic angles. "I am not going to let you eat her."

Hannibal finishes with his task and snips the threads of the sutures. He takes Will's hand in his and plants his fingers on the wrist. "Let's not forget what happened the last time we were in a kitchen together."

"How could I?" Will accepts the glass of water that Signora brings him with his free hand. His arm shakes, but he still manages to take a drink. She takes the glass back when he offers. "Are you going to kill the Inspector?"

Hannibal drops Will's wrist. "You need to tell me if you start to disassociate."

"Hannibal."

"However, I'm optimistic that driving in your condition won't kill you."

Will grabs him by the wrist as he rises, "Don't. Please, don't."

Hannibal doesn't glare, doesn't glower, doesn't soften his gaze. He doesn't even take Will's hand off his wrist. He very gently and very calmly waits for the sound of a car arriving in the driveway before walking off down the hall.

Signora heads him off. Will calls her back to the kitchen with a begging quality in his voice. Hannibal doesn't stop her from returning. That's how comfortable he is with the arrangement. Kill Pazzi. Maybe kill his wife. Either way, the good doctor is happy.

"Please," Will begs her, staring her in the eyes, trying to transmit his thoughts across the language barrier. "Please, call the Polizia. Polizia! Please, just call them. Call them now."

She pats him on the shoulders and speaks hurriedly, something Will's sure is along the lines of, "You are delirious. This is the blood loss talking. Would you like more water?"

The door slams into the wall when it is kicked open. Signora nearly leaps out of her skin. She starts towards the hallway again, but Will takes her wrist to stop her.

Will can't tell whether Hannibal survives the three gunshots that ring out from the foyer, especially not when Signora screams. Adrenaline gives him the strength to rise out of the chair and grab her. One hand over her mouth muffles the scream and the other arm around her waist keeps her from struggling. Pain and dizziness become great motivators. He has to hold on because letting go will mean falling apart again. He'll melt to the floor in a pool of his own blood and have to listen to his heart stop beating.

He listens carefully, filtering out the sounds of his own ragged breath and Signora's struggles for signs of life. Very quickly, it becomes clear that Hannibal and Pazzi are both still alive. They are fighting again, this time moving to higher ground. Will can hear them climbing the stairs in battle this time, until finally, a heavy thud drops against the wood and echoes through the house. There's a pause, then the sounds of someone being dragged across the floor overhead.

Signora weeps. Weeps and screams and fights. Will digs his fingers into her neck until she goes limp. He binds her hands with one of the zip ties from Hannibal's murder kit, shoves the rag in her mouth, and buttons up his shirt.

He doesn't think twice about any of it. Hannibal, the bastard, always did manage to bring out the worst in him.

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><p>Will is going to interrupt them. Hannibal can hear the scuffling in the kitchen below, can feel the house pulse with the lad's desperation. He has to hurry, though he will not be denied his satisfaction. Pazzi is greedy, and greed is a powerful enough motivator to compensate for the Commandatore's lack of intelligence.<p>

He cuffs Pazzi's hands behind his back, binds his ankles with his shoelaces, and then scans the room for a noose. There's an extension cord running along the wall that does nicely and is fitted around the inspector's neck by the time his eyelids begin to flutter. A fresh pair of socks makes for a decent gag. By the time Pazzi has regained consciousness, Hannibal has dragged him to the balcony and is attaching the extension cord to the rails.

"I have no need to hear your voice, Commandatore, only to have the answers to the questions I provide. Cooperate, and it may be convenient for me to leave Florence without my meal." At that, Pazzi stops struggling. He lets Hannibal balance him against the rails of the balcony. The sounds of the struggle below are starting to soften. Hannibal's knife hand itches. "Blink twice for yes, once for no: was it Mason Verger you sold me to?"

Pazzi glares at him. His glare is rheumy and teary, a world-weary gaze. Time has not been guide to the Inspector. Hannibal brings his scalpel to rest against Pazzi's stomach. "Was it Mason Verger you sold me to?"

Two blinks. Of course. "Are they here now?" Single blink. "Are they on their way?" One blink? Two blink? Hannibal sighs. "Was that a single blink? Now is not the time to be getting confused, Commandatore, not when Signora has been incapacitated." And she has been: the silence from downstairs attests to that. Pazzi smartens up and manages to perform two blinks.

Hannibal smiles and breathes a sigh. Mason's men are on the way. All the more reason to run. He grips a handful of Pazzi's hair in his hand, dragging the Inspector's head back so that he can see the city. "I was content to live quietly in Florence, Commandatore, but if I must die, it will not be by Mason Verger's methods. Your alliance with him is very rude, and I hate rude people." Pazzi struggles, grumbling and cursing in muffled tones. Hannibal lets the Inspector look him in the eye. "Your wife, on the other hand, was very accommodating. Tell me, yes or no, if Mason's men are close, and I will leave without harvesting her lovely circulatory system."  
>More muffled screaming on Pazzi's part. Hannibal has to dig the scalpel against his throat to get him to focus. One blink greets him. Hannibal's smile broadens. "Thank you, Commandatore. You have been most helpful. One final question," he drags the scalpel down, down, down, lightly grazing Pazzi's chest. "What's it to be: bowels in," he presses the scalpel against Pazzi's abdomen, "or bowels out – like Judas?"<p>

The sight of enraged, furious blinking greets Hannibal. His smile disappears. "Are you confused? Well, I'll decide for you, if you'll permit me."

Pazzi permits. His abdomen splits open around the scalpel, spilling blood over Hannibal's forearm. Heaving him over the rail is a pleasurably sight.

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><p>Happy reading!<p> 


	5. Five

Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: When it's all over, there's intestines swirled on the cobblestones, and Will is suddenly appreciative of the fact that Hannibal gutted him on the ground floor.

Author's Notes: It's been a busy two weeks, but I finally have the next installment! Thank you so much to everyone who has been keeping up with the story and for the lovely comments encouraging me to continue. They really helped get me back into the habit of writing after my travel this week.

Enjoy!

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><p>Five<p>

"They'll be looking for your car," Will says by way of a distraction. The quiet of the car is louder than the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

Hannibal is prepared. Will doesn't know how, doesn't remember, the walk from Pazzi's house is a big, nauseating blur, but that just raises Hannibal's advantage exponentially. "I switched the plates," the doctor says, "That should buy us some time until we reach the border."

"We'll never make it out of the city."

"Still indulging in wishful thinking," Hannibal sighs.

Will defends himself, "Signora Pazzi's not dead." His wishful thinking has given him that at least.

Hannibal wastes no time disabusing him of his idealism, "No, but Inspector Pazzi is. I think it's time for you to embrace the reality of our situation."

"Your situation."

"_Our_ situation."

"You manipulated me."

"I've manipulated you before. Why did you think I would do differently now, especially when threatened or cornered?"

"I didn't expect you to lie to me about the hospital."

"You're the FBI's finest profiler, and I'm an intelligent psychopath. Either one of us is lying about who we are, or you wanted to be manipulated."

"I didn't want to be manipulated," Will shudders from how sullen he sounds. And from the clawing pain in his back. He tries to adjust himself on the seat, but there's no position that doesn't strain his wound. "I wanted to bring you in."

"More wishful thinking."

"Evidently."

Hannibal hums - neutrally - reserving judgment for once. "How is your wound?"

"It's fine," Will says without his voice cracking. He suppresses the urge to move again, and, when he notices Hannibal looking, he deflects, "You're worried."

"You've lost a lot of blood."

"I lost a lot of blood on your kitchen floor."

"True, but I intended for you to lose a lot of blood then."

"So did Inspector Pazzi," and the thought prompts Will to ask. "Were you trying to kill me in Baltimore?"

The question has bothered him since waking up in the hospital. Disembowelment is a terrible way to die, as Will well knows, but he's also keenly aware of how wretched disembowelment is to survive.

Hannibal doesn't even have to consider his answer. He knew exactly what he was doing in Baltimore. "I was punishing you in Baltimore. My purpose was harm, as much as possible. Did I harm you sufficiently in Baltimore, Will?"

His bottom lip quivers. He doesn't mean for it to, tries to hide it by leaning his face against the window, but of course, Hannibal sees. Hannibal can probably hear the flap of his lip against the air. "How would you measure sufficient harm?" Will asks. "You committed so much harm that night."

"Comparatively, then: what hurt more? The cut to your gut-"

"Stop."

"-or the cut to Abigail's throat?"

Will tries not to see her lying there, blood geysering from her neck. Her hand fanning through the waves of red spilling over the floor. He tries not to think about the terror in her eyes when the blade first appeared.

He tries, but trying never was enough with Hannibal.

"She didn't know you were going to kill her."

"Neither do lambs brought to slaughter."

"Abigail wasn't a lamb."

"Does that make her death less cruel?"

"No," Will feels her fear fresh, new, like he's back there on the kitchen floor trying to hold the blood inside her body and his own. His eyelids flutter. The quiet of the car unnerves him. "No, that makes it crueller. You saved Abigail from her father only to take his place."

"I wasn't trying to kill Abigail."

Will forces himself to laugh without smiling. "Yes, you cut her neck to the bone just to harm."

"It harmed you," Hannibal looks at him.

The logic makes sense, at least for Hannibal, whose curiosity remains unsatisfied with absolutes. Killing Abigail meant he would never be able to exploit her suffering again, in the same way that killing Will would rob him of an equal.

Will breaks into a full-body shudder. Physically, he's too keyed up to sleep, but he can't bear to hold himself up in Hannibal's presence. "Did it harm you?"

Hannibal's nod is matter-of-fact. "Yes, though not as much as your betrayal."

Will is quiet for a long while after that. His breathing tells Hannibal that he's not asleep, merely avoiding further conversation. Talking about Abigail appears to have the same effect on Will as slitting her throat. Hannibal decides to keep that in mind.

He avoids the highways, keeping instead to the labyrinth of country roads weaving the Italian countryside. Moonlight illuminates the road just enough to see, but Hannibal is familiar with the area. Jack Crawford isn't. He doesn't dispose of human bodies as frequently as Hannibal.

"Where are we?"

Sleeps clings tightly to Will's voice. Between the darkness and the heat, his own weakness and exhaustion, he's starting to fade.

Hannibal dismisses the question – not because he doesn't want to answer, but because it is worth answering. Will is about to nod off, and they'll keep moving until Florence is a distant memory. "Go to sleep, Will," he urges.

Will grumbles and digs his fingers into his eyelids. "Where are we going?"

"I was going to ask you: north? West? East? We could make our way across all three, though I think for tonight, a quiet bed would serve our purposes."

Will shifts and winces in agreement. "You should get some rest," Hannibal reminds him. "You've lost blood, and I can't provide a transfusion."

"I don't want to sleep. Actually, I don't want to want to fall asleep. That's probably more accurate."

"Care to keep me company?"

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable in your company."

"I would not have stitched you up if I intended to take something out."

Will tosses his head, "Good point."

"Why the internal conflict about sleeping?"

"Minnesota."

Hannibal doesn't know what to make of the answer. He remembers several trips to Minnesota and can't be sure which one Will is referencing. Thankfully, the lad is cogent enough to explain, "You took me to Abigail's home in Minnesota: when I was a fugitive and you were the abetter. I slept most of the drive."

"You were exhausted," Hannibal doesn't see how this generates unease. "You had been arrested, processed, and interrogated; then transferred, escaped, and arrived at my office."

"With encephalitis," Will glares.

Hannibal ignores him. "Motion and heat are soothing. I fail to see your concern."

"I'm an insomniac. There's not a lot that guarantees my sleeping, but I barely remember getting into the car for that trip."

"Again," Hannibal notes, "not unusual for your physical state at the time."

Will sighs. His eye are closed, and his body has finally loosened to the point where his limbs no longer shudder. "I was starting to figure it out – in your office. _What you are_. Yet the second I got into a locked vehicle with you en route to an isolated area, I fell asleep."

"You slept nearly the whole way there."

"Yes. And now I know what you are, but I still desperately want to sleep. You just killed a man, and I'm comfortable sleeping in your presence. Probably more comfortable than outside of it…" Will winces from the tug in his back and on his heart. "I'm falling asleep because this feels safe."

Hannibal's smile is implied, "Fresh from a crime scene."

"Fresh from a crime scene," Will agrees, "I'm perfectly safe with you, right now, here, aren't I?"

"I'm glad you're with me, Will."

"That doesn't mean you're not out to cause more harm."

"No," and Hannibal would never promise otherwise. "But right now, here, yes, you are safe. From everyone."

Everyone except Hannibal Lecter.

And that thought cradles Will in the dark.

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><p>Happy reading!<p> 


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